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“Thank you. I’m looking forward to it too,” I say for the thousandth time. I stop myself from addressing him as “Mr. Pearson” because he’s told me several times to call him Travis. He’s not my principal anymore; he’s my boss, although that’s basically the same thing. Except that I’m not a student here anymore but a teacher.

You’re a damn hypocrite, that’s what you are.

My hands clench into fists, and I grit my teeth, trying to block out the voice in my head, but it’s persistent and way too loud.

“I’m sure you’ll settle in quickly,” he continues.

I’d like to agree with him, but I can’t. I’m not suited for this job, and eventually Pearson will realize that too. I should be grateful to him, because absolutely no one else would have given me the same chance he did. I’m too young to teach, too inexperienced. I’ve barely finished school myself, having spent the last two years in New York ballet companies after graduating from Juilliard. I owe this job to a stupid coincidence. An unexpected encounter on the street at the beginning of the summer. I happened to run into Pearson, who recognized me and asked how I was doing and if I was dancing with the Boston City Ballet. Which I wasn’t. Not because they didn’t want me, but because it wouldn’t have been the right thing to do. Much too unpredictable. I needed more security for my new life in Boston, and Pearson was the one who offered it to me.

We had a short conversation a few days later, and then suddenly I had a job, new perspectives, and a glimmer of hope. But I still can’t be grateful. That’s because I’m scared shitless to be here. I’m afraid of failing and disappointing everyone, like I always do.

“Yeah, I think so too,” I reply after a pause, looking around the foyer so I don’t have to look at Pearson anymore and see that damn confidence in his eyes. Dozens of students are standing at the round tables, chatting. Their faces blur into an indefinable mass of humanity. I don’t care which of them I’ll meet in class. I’m here for reasons that have nothing to do with them.

You have to come back and take responsibility. What do you think you’re doing, wandering from city to city, hoping to make it as a dancer? It can’t go on like this, Phoenix. You can’t pretend nothing happened. Isabel wouldn’t want that.

Another voice, louder than the usual one in my head. It’s Mom’s voice. I want to cover my ears so I don’t have to listen to her anymore. Instead, my fingernails dig deeper into my palms. Isabel wouldn’t want that. She has absolutely no idea what Isabel would want.

“This semester, you’ll be sitting in on Francesca’s classes to get a feel for teaching. After all, you’re on the other side of the barre now.” Pearson jars me out of my musings and laughs at his own joke. It doesn’t really make sense, but it makes the voices in my head shut up for a moment. I force a weak smile, even though my shoulders are completely tense.

“Which classes does she teach?” I ask, because it’s surely how he expects me to reply, even though I don’t care a bit. I’ll go to any class he sends me to, no matter who the teacher is, no matter what the level. It makes sense that he isn’t giving me my own classes yet; I really don’t have enough experience. None at all, actually. At least, not with teaching others. You can’t learn that overnight.

“This year she will—” Pearson says but breaks off when someone behind us says his name. We turn around at the same moment.

I freeze when my gaze meets hers.

Bright-green eyes, long lashes. Blond hair like liquid gold. A heart-shaped face, finely arched eyebrows, a cute nose.

It takes a moment for me to realize that it’s actually her. My heart is pounding, fast and hard.

Ophelia.

Damn. What the hell is she doing here?

She looks at me, a hint of panic in her large eyes, and I want to ask her exactly that question. But my mouth is suddenly dry as dust, my voice won’t do what I want, and my mind is pure chaos. She’s here. She shouldn’t even be in this city, damn it. She should be in London. On another continent. A thousand miles away from me.

“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Pearson. We just wanted to come over and say hello.” The bright voice belongs to the dark-haired girl with shining eyes and freckles. She says something else to Pearson that I don’t register, because there’s a ringing sound in my ears. My gaze has long since wandered back to the pair of green eyes that are still looking at me with a mixture of horror and panic.

What are you doing here? I want to ask. But I can’t get a word out.

Pearson answers the question as if he read my mind. “You’re not bothering us. Phoenix, this is Katie Johnson and Lia Winslow. They’re both seniors. You’ll be seeing each other in Francesca’s classes from now on. Phoenix recently moved back to Boston from New York to teach here,” Pearson says. The last part isn’t true, but I don’t correct him. My brain is out of order. All I can think about is her name.

Lia.

Not Ophelia, like she told me back then. It must be a nickname.

She turns pale, and only now does the rest of what Pearson said sink in. Seniors. Francesca’s classes. She and I will be there together.

I feel too warm, and I wish it was just because I’m wearing a hoodie in spite of the summery temperatures, but that’s not the reason. It’s because of her, her big eyes and full lips. Lips that closed around my cock just three months ago. All at once, I can hear her hoarse moaning in my ear again, feel her skin beneath my hands. I’m done for. I’m so screwed.

We stare at each other for a few seconds. Something about her is different from that night, but I can’t quite put a finger on it. How could I? I have no idea who she is, and I really shouldn’t give a shit. But I do.

Her face is more closed now, more distant, not as vulnerable or open. I wish I couldn’t remember how she looked at me that night. Ophelia got under my skin and left a mark on my soul. Her green eyes. All the things she told me. Her smile, which was so real and so sad.

And on top of it all, she stole something from me.

My gaze darts to her neckline, only briefly, but long enough to recognize the silver chain hanging around her slender neck. I can’t see the pendant—she has her hand around it—but I know it’s my chain. The necklace that had been lying on my bedside table for weeks disappeared the morning after my night with Lia.

I thought I would never see it again. But there it is. I’d just have to reach out my hand, and I could grab it.